


hearts like houses

by impossibletruths



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Intimacy Of The Sexual And Non-Sexual Variety, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Rustic Autumnal Goodness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 19:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21203048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths
Summary: For his birthday they take a vacation, and come home.





	hearts like houses

**Author's Note:**

> This is miles outside my wheelhouse so please be gentle with me. Also, I love them.

They’re cleaning up after dinner––a lentil dish, satisfyingly spicy; it’s Kady and Julia’s night to cook and Eliot’s maybe thinking it should be their night more often––when Quentin broaches the subject. Which Eliot’s been expecting, sort of, because they've been talking around it for the past couple of days, and because they, well. Missed the last one.

It’s hardly the only thing they've missed in the past year. Some days they even manage to talk about it. Most days it’s enough to be grateful they’ve gotten the chance to try again.

He tries to be grateful, anyway. Like most things, it's a work in progress.

“So,” Quentin says, overly casual and up to his forearms in sudsy water and dirty dishes, “your birthday’s soon.”

“Is it really?” Eliot returns lightly, scraping leftovers into tupperware containers. Quentin flicks soapy water in his direction. He yelps.

“Yeah, okay. Listen, I thought we could, y’know. Do something.”

“What kind of something did you have in mind?”

“Well,” he says, and then he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Eliot leaves off with the leftovers to frown in his direction, finds him studiously scrubbing an already-clean plate.

“Q?”

“Margo’s throwing a party,” he says in a rush. “On, like, the day-of, so it’s not–– I mean, I know you like, y’know, an event.”

“I do,” he agrees slowly. And then, gently, “I like other things too.”

Quentin makes a face, like he knows exactly what Eliot’s doing, mouth going all pursed. It’s a good face. Quentin’s face is always good, in his not-so-humble opinion, but this one is particularly nice, because it means Eliot’s got it right, that Eliot’s got _Quentin_ right, and Eliot likes getting Quentin right. It’s stupid how much he likes it.

Q sets the plate on the drying rack with a determined air, water speckling the rolled cuffs of his shirtsleeves. “I thought maybe we could get out of town for the weekend. You and me, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Eliot snaps the lids on the tupperware containers, watching Q’s eyes slide to him, uncertain. As if Eliot wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to get Q to himself for the weekend without the revolving door of friends-and-sort-of-family cycling through the penthouse to drag them into the ever-evolving problem of the week. “I’d like that.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. 

“Cause, I mean––”

“Q.”

“I’m just saying. If you’d rather, like, throw a rager––”

“Please never use that word in my presence––”

“––I’d get it.” He’s smiling, though, right around the eyes, so he doesn’t mean it. Eliot huffs.

“Where are we going?” he asks, pointed, and Quentin relaxes into the question.

“My grandparents have a place upstate I thought might be nice to visit.”

“Oh, Nana and Pawpaw’s, how sweet. Should we bring a pie?”

“They’re not gonna _ be _ there, El.”

“More’s the pity.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “It’s this cabin they’ve got. Kind of, um, quaint, I guess.”

“I like quaint.”

The look Q gives him says, _ yeah, right. _ Eliot sticks the leftovers in the fridge and wrinkles his nose right back. It’s not like he’s opposed on principal or anything. Sure he dislikes _ boring _, but a weekend with Quentin in a cozy cabin upstate sounds about as far from boring as he can get. He can think of a dozen things to keep them busy off the top of his head, and only half of them involve a bed.

“Just us, right?” he says, and drapes himself over Quentin’s shoulders, punctuating it with a kiss to the top of his head. Q sinks back against him, line of his shoulders loosening.

“Yeah,” he says.

“I’d like that a lot.”

“Okay. Well. Good.”

Eliot settle his chin more firmly atop Q’s head, musing. “Is it going to sully your childhood memories if we fuck on the––”

Quentin elbows him in the stomach, but he’s grinning when he turns around to kiss him, so that’s alright.

* * *

They drive up Friday afternoon, air cool-crisp and sky blazing blue, and leave strict orders in their wake not to contact them for anything short of a multiverse-ending emergency, and Julia swears and crosses her heart so they'll probably be fine. Eliot navigates them out of the city, and they pull over at a Starbucks an hour northwest for coffee and to swap driving duties.

“Are you sure you want to drive?” Eliot asks, cradling a latte––_yes, pumpkin spice, Q, it’s good_––in his hands. Quentin triple checks the rearview mirror, waiting for a family too far away to be in danger to pass behind him.

“I know where the place is,” he points out reasonably, and eases them onto the interstate, where they stay just long enough for his grip on the wheel to go white-knuckle before turning off down a two-lane backroad. They wend their way northwards, trees arching over them in every color of rust and copper. Quentin’s shoulder relax noticeably the farther they get from the city, and the tight knot of concern in Eliot’s chest eases with it.

“I always loved this drive,” he says over the fuzzing of the radio, sound of the highway far behind them. Eliot settles back in the seat of the too-clean rent-a-car and pictures it: Quentin young, sitting in the back and watching low stone walls and limber trees roll past for miles and miles, lost in his own little world.

“You did this regularly?”

“Twice a year,” he nods, nearly glowing in the afternoon light dripping through the canopy. “Before the divorce, anyway. Summer vacation and Thanksgiving.”

“Over the river and through the woods?”

“To grandmother’s house, yeah. Mom and Dad tried really hard with the whole white picket fence thing.”

“Sounds idyllic.” Far more so than sullen family trips through bleak, blank Indiana to be pinched and prodded for a few days before piling home again, everyone even more distempered than when they'd left.

“It was.”

“And then they split?”

“Yeah. But, turns out Mom's into women, so.”

Eliot hums. “That’ll do it.”

Quentin shrugs, careless. Eliot spares a moment to imagine what it must be like to grow up with someone who understands. No wonder Q’s so steady about this, about him, about his choices. Something flares hot under his ribs, part wonder and part shame; he turns his gaze back to the autumn world scudding past and holds tight to the wonder.

“Anyway,” Quentin’s saying in the driver’s seat, heedless of Eliot’s momentary guilt. “Fewer visits to grandma and grandpa’s after that.”

“They’re your mom’s parents, right?” asks Eliot. He has a vague recollection of a conversation similar to this in a different world. It’s weird still. Not bad, but weird. Like stepping into someone else’s skin, even though it’s his own life, sort of. Quentin nods next to him.

“Yeah. But they’re always telling me to use the cabin, bring friends, all that. Especially since Dad–– Y’know.”

Eliot hums low in his throat, skirts that particular tangle of heartache and slow healing. “You’re right, a weekend getaway with your boyfriend was just the thing to rekindle that connection.”

Quentin take his eyes off the road long enough to roll them in his direction. He’s also, Eliot notices, blushing a little. It’s cute.

“I think it’s a great idea,” he soothes.

“It is,” Q mutters, sullenness ruined by the slight smile crinkling across his face. Stark joy swells in Eliot’s chest, the same wordless wonder he feels every time Q does–– well, anything really. It’s big, and terrifying, and he kind of never wants it to go away.

He reaches for Quentin’s hand and Q laces their fingers together without a word. 

They turn up a long, winding drive as the sun begins to set, drenching the world in pulpy amber. Quentin picks his way up the road, and then they’re pulling up in front of the cabin, a low wooden building with a wide porch and dancing wind chimes and red-painted shutters nestled in a clearing, fire-bright autumn foliage blooming all around, and Eliot gets suddenly, viscerally, why Quentin’s picked this particular destination for a weekend out of the city.

“Oh,” he says, all the air punched out of him.

Quentin turns off the engine. They sit in the car, quiet except for the wind rustling the leaves, sending a few spiraling down to the ground. Quentin watches Eliot steadily, tiny tick of a furrow between his brow.

“Is this... okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat. “Q, it––”

He doesn’t know what to say. It looks like home. Like _ their _ home, like––

“Happy birthday,” says Quentin into the silence he leaves, and he leans across the console to press a kiss to his cheek. “C’mon.”

Eliot collects the bags while Quentin wrestles with the door, cursing quietly. The sun dips behind the distant line of the horizon, trees lengthening to purple-blue shadows in the gloaming. It’s the reflection of a thousand other sunsets, and as the wind sighs through the trees and tugs the hem of his coat, the world––every world––feels a million miles away. They could be the only two people to exist, small under the trees. It’s familiar as it is strange, and nice in a yawning, rickety way; he feels like the breeze could carry him to earth as easily as the autumn leaves.

“Fuck it,” mutters Q behind him before slipping into Greek. A moment later the lock clicks and the door opens.

Inside the cabin isn’t quite so gutpunch familiar, and he steadies. It’s also––thankfully––not nearly as seventies as Eliot feared. Thick carpets cover most of the hardwood underfoot, and the plush couch is an unfortunate off-green tartan only marginally improved by the throw draped over the back, but the art on the walls is all tastefully modern and so are the amenities on the kitchen counter.

“It’s nice,” he says, scanning over the television and the candles laid out on the coffee table. Quentin takes one of the grocery bags from him and sets it on the counter.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I expected more taxidermy animals.”

“It’s a house, El, not a hunting lodge.”

“Well I can see that now.” He sets the rest of the groceries down and Quentin begins sorting through them, moving with practiced ease between the cabinets and fridge.

“The bedroom’s through there,” he says, pointing at the door on the far wall. “Bathroom too.”

“Should we break it in?” Eliot asks, only sort of joking. Quentin snorts.

“Not that having lots of really great sex wasn’t on my list for the weekend––”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“––but I was thinking we might start with the food.”

“Kinky.”

Quentin huffs. “Eliot.”

He shrugs, grinning and unrepentant and so fucking _ light _ he could float away, and ducks into the bedroom to drop their bags. The bed is an enormous thing, headboard carved from a single slab of dark wood, and smells unfortunately of mothballs. Eliot spends a few minutes tracking down fresh bedding and swapping out the sheets, and in that time also discovers the bathroom has an equally monstrous tub. He revises his mental itinerary.

“Did you get lost in there?” Quentin calls from the main room as he’s finishing up straightening the comforter with a nudge of help from magic. He appears in the doorway a moment later, sock footed and leaning against the frame. “Or were you just admiring the place?”

Eliot sits on the bed to unlace his shoes, eyebrows wiggling. Quentin can keep a good poker face when he wants to, but there’s a hint of a crease to one cheek that means he’s biting down a smile. “Have you seen the size of the tub?”

“I’ve been here before, El, yes.”

“We could definitely both fit.”

“I’m sure we could.” Quentin says it like he’s humoring him, but his gaze goes sharper, so Eliot’s pretty sure he’s not nearly as bemused as he’s pretending to be. That’s fine. Eliot has thoughts. Eliot has a _ lot _ of thoughts.

“After a long day traipsing through the woods.”

“Uh huh.”

Eliot digs his toes into the carpet and stretches, watching Quentin watch him with a deep-seated satisfaction. “And you can rub my back––”

Quentin snorts, pushing off the doorframe. “Oh, can I?”

“Mhm,” Eliot nods, trailing him out towards the kitchen. “Since it’s my birthday and all.”

“Oh, right, of course.” Quentin nods solemnly, eyes dancing. “Since it’s your birthday, and all.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Of course not,” he lies unconvincingly. “Wine?”

Obviously. Eliot uncorks the bottle and pours two healthy portions despite the mockery being made of him, over his birthday of all things. They clink the rims together, and then Eliot goes poking through the cabinets in search of a pot.

“Bottom left,” Q tells him, and hoists himself up on the counter, heels kicking against the cabinets while Eliot heats dinner. They’d made the soup before they left––well, Eliot had made the soup, technically, but also Quentin had been busy with some Hedge thing Julia had dragged him into after the whole chimera disaster, which, the less said the better––knowing full well neither would want to cook after four hours in the car. It simmers away on the stove, filling the cabin with the rich-warm smell of squash and spice, and they migrate to the couch while they wait for it to be ready. There's a Halloween marathon on, a selection of blood-n-guts slashers playing back to back. The one on right now looks particularly low-budget, which is the best kind of slasher film, in Eliot’s opinion.

“How fucked up is it that these movies don’t freak me out nearly as much anymore now that I know what it actually looks like when someone gets dismembered?” Quentin asks, tucking his feet under him. Eliot frowns at him, but he doesn’t look particularly distressed about it. More idly curious. Which is pretty fucked up in its own way, but Eliot's always been the sort to see the silver lining to deep-seated personal trauma.

Also, it's his birthday. Some baggage can wait.

“Pretty fucked up,” he returns, kicking his feet up in Q’s lap. Quentin shifts them so he’s not digging his heels quite so uncomfortably into the jutting bone of his hip, backs of his knuckles skimming against his ankles. It’s nice. 

“Yeah, I figured.”

Eliot hums. “You know, growing up I always pictured my life less horror film and more Oscar bait."

Quentin snorts. “El, your life is a camp dramedy.”

He digs his toes into Quentin’s side, because he may be lying down but he’s not going to take that lying down, metaphorically speaking. Quentin wriggles away from him, but doesn’t apologize––doesn’t look remotely apologetic, in fact, because he’s a cruel, terrible man who spends too much time with Margo while Eliot isn’t around to supervise. It makes his heart do bright, funny things in his chest. He smoothes the side of his foot against Quentin’s thigh and digs it back under Q’s hand, pouting as prettily as he can until Quentin takes up brushing his thumb across his ankle.

On screen a blonde girl in an impractically low-cut, bloodstained shirt screams. It’s hard to tell what’s going on exactly, but there seems to be an axe involved, and a few gallons of fake blood. Quentin wrinkles his nose.

“Who makes this shit?”

“Historically? First-time indie directors trying to break into the industry on a shoestring budget.” There’s really a lot of fake blood. Someone is maybe losing a limb? Which one is difficult to discern. “It’s artistic, really. The red for heightened emotion, the diegetic soundtrack to the viewer anchored in the moment. Cinematic.”

“And the close up of her boobs? Is that cinematic too?”

“She’s a living woman, Q, an innocent. Just look at her bosom heave. Doesn’t it just make your heart swell?”

“Not sure that’s what’s supposed to be swelling,” Q returns. Eliot laughs delightedly into his wine.

The soup is ready before the movie ends, so Quentin googles the synopsis while ladling servings into bowls and announces that the girl survives, to which Eliot brandishes the bread knife and complains dramatically of spoilers. They spend dinner tossing out increasingly ridiculous ways she could have made it out, which... devolves fairly quickly.

("A doorway to a magical world, Q? Really?"

“It’s not _ that _ strange, Eliot.”

“Just because _ we _ lived it––”

“I’m just saying, you can’t disqualify it because it’s too _ realistic. _ Anyway, you said _ aliens _ so you’re not allowed to vote.”

“You snob. In that case you’re definitely disqualified for suggesting the police showed up.”

“It happened in Get Out.”

“That’s because Get Out is an unparalleled cinematic masterpiece that makes expert use of film form to comment on racism.”

“Oh, now who’s a film snob.”)

His eyes keep drifting back to Quentin as they eat, and then as they sit around and talk idly of nothing important, reveling in the chance to unwind fully. Quentin keeps smiling at nothing, warm and easy and shining, and Eliot sort of can't look away. He’s always so bright, Q, like there’s something in him that doesn’t know how to go out, however feeble and flickering it might get. Eliot could spend the rest of his life sheltering that spark.

“What?” Quentin asks eventually, long after their bowls have been wiped clean and the bread is nothing but crumbs and Eliot’s attention is an unsubtle brand. Eliot tilts his wine glass with one finger, balancing it on the rim of the base, feeling decadent and full and still hungry.

“I’m enjoying the view,” he returns, watching Q blush. It’s a game, sort of; pushing how long he can wait when he wants is his skin against Quentin’s, like, yesterday, and is content to stay in the quiet shelter of this moment too, with his feet kicked up in an empty chair as they work their way through the last of the bottle. There’s no losing here, because sooner or later Eliot’s going to show him just how much he enjoys the view. The only uncertainty is when.

“Y’know,” says Q idly, eyes dark in a way that makes Eliot think that maybe he gets the game too, “Margo laughed when I told her I wanted to take you on a weekend getaway.”

“Really?”

“I think it was the cabin in the woods that put her off.” He affects a shockingly good imitation of Margo. _ ”You wanna take El homesteading for his birthday? What is this, Little House On The Prairie?” _

“Does Bambi know you can do that?” Eliot asks, utterly delighted. Quentin shakes his head.

“Of course not,” he says. “I value my life.”

“She’d enjoy it,” he promises, and makes a mental note to bring it up at some point. She could use a laugh, Margo. Or he could. At least one of them will be having fun, so it counts.

Quentin’s face suggests he doesn't believe him enough to agree nor doubt him enough to argue. Eliot shrugs and reaches for the wine, splitting the last of the bottle between their glasses.

“Anyways,” Q rolls on after a moment, mulish. “Those are good books.”

“I’m sure,” Eliot agrees. He maybe saw the television show? Once? Was there a television show? It doesn’t matter. He shrugs with one lazy shoulder. “Bambi means well but I don't think she entirely gets the Fillory thing.”

“I thought you told her.”

“Of course I told her. You told Julia, didn’t you?” Of course he told her, he means, because she’s Margo, she’s an intrinsic part of him, his best and oldest friend and he loves her, but that doesn’t mean–– Some things don’t translate, not exactly. It's just... complicated.

Which Quentin understands, because Julia is part of him and half goddess and doesn’t quite get it either.

“Yeah,” Q agrees, and they sit in silence a moment, thinking of that old home, that improbable life. Quentin drains his wine and stand.

“You done with that?” he asks, nodding at the empty bowl in front of him, and Eliot passes it over, levers himself up to help clean, or at least put the food away and leave the bowls to sit in the sink under the guise of soaking, unwilling to be bothered with it just now.

He catches Quentin emerging from the fridge, wraps his arms around him and takes a moment to rest his chin atop Q’s head. He feels more than hears Quentin sigh against him.

“I love you,” he murmurs, which lights up Eliot’s heart the way it has since the very first time he heard it, like tinder catching fire. “This really is okay, right?”

“Homesteading?” Eliot teases, and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. “Yes.” He means it too; it’s an unexpected relief to step away from the city, from everything and everyone demanding their aid no matter how hard they try to balance the world-saving shit with living real, full lives, minding their health and wellness as much as the continued existence of the multiverse or whatever. It’s a heady, private pleasure to get Quentin all to himself, because the last thing he wants is to take Q away from his life but he is also a weak and selfish man and he loves Quentin’s attention. “It’s far better than okay, Q, trust me.”

“Alright,” he returns, sort of automatic. Eliot looks down at him and loves him, fiercely, the soft parts and the brittle ones and the shining bravery and the determination that threads through it all.

“So,” he drawls, because there’s a lump in his throat and a hot pressure behind his eyes and they haven’t even, like, made out in the bath yet so he’s definitely not allowed to cry about how helplessly in love he is, or whatever, “bed now, or––?”

Quentin huffs, expression broadcasting just how pleased he is about this all. If Eliot could bottle this exasperated fondness he would, wear it around his neck and keep it forever. “Here I am trying to plan a nice romantic getaway––”

“And it’s very romantic, Q, I’m just saying, we finally have a place to ourselves and should take full advantage of––”

Quentin pushes up on his toes to kiss him, swallowing down the rest of the comment, and Eliot lets it go in favor of licking into his mouth. Quentin opens to him with a pleased little hum, and Eliot spends a thorough moment enjoying the warm press of lips against his and the pulse jumping under his fingers where his thumb brushes just beneath the curve of Q’s jaw.

“You are,” Quentin says when they part, lips shining pink, “so fucking bossy, sometimes”

“I’m pretty sure you like it,” Eliot returns. Quentin’s hands tighten reflexively in the fabric of his shirt.

“Yeah, well.”

Eliot kisses him again, tugs him in close at the waist so he has to tip his face up-up-up to Eliot’s, and Eliot takes his time with it. It’s his fucking birthday and he’s enjoying the finer points of life, like kissing Quentin slow and sure in the kitchen of a cabin that is just like and also nothing like the home they shared for fifty years, because time is fucked like that.

This, though, kissing Q, who tastes like wine–– this is good. This is fucking great.

“Well?” he prompts when he pulls back, eyebrows rising in invitation.

“Fuck,” Quentin mutters, staring up at him with wide, dark eyes. It sends a thrill of pleasure through Eliot that he gets this, that this is his. “Yeah. Bed sounds great.”

They make it as far as the couch.

They try, they really do, but Quentin is nothing if not impatient and Eliot, sue him, is happy to give in. For a moment they’re a tangle of limbs sinking into the overstuffed cushions, and then Quentin’s settled across his thighs and grinning down at him, all dimples, and Eliot is so fucking in love he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Quentin, luckily, seems to have an idea. It mostly involves making out while he alternately curls his hands into Eliot’s shirt and hair.

It’s a very good idea, actually.

“I want it noted,” Eliot says between breathless kisses, “that we’re setting a high precedent for birthdays.”

“Is that really what you’re focusing on right now?” Q asks, with a pointed roll of his hips, and yeah, okay, point taken but he’s just _ saying _ is all.

In retaliation Eliot tugs him closer, hands firm on his ass, and then slides them up under his shirt, cool palms pressed against the warm skin on his back, enjoying the way Quentin squirms away from his fingers and closer against his chest.

“El,” he complains, more groan than anything as Eliot presses his lips to his neck, grazing his leaping pulse with his teeth.

“Shush please, I’m focusing.”

Eliot works his hands higher under his shirt, reveling in the pleased, eager noises he makes, fingers following the knobs of his spine, the ticklish skin of his sides, the slope of his lower back. It’s endearing, almost, how fully Q melts into the simple sensation of touch, how much he likes behind held. It makes Eliot want to touch him, every inch of him.

Well, he thinks distantly, occupied with Quentin’s weight in his lap and his warm skin and his eager, open mouth, maybe he will. They have all weekend. Maybe he’ll lie Quentin down on that enormous bed and map him out, run his fingers and mouth across his bare skin until he comes apart.

Later, though. Not now, not with Quentin impatient in his lap, rocking forward like he can’t help himself, beautifully needy. Eliot wants to give him everything. Anything. Whatever he wants.

“Can I get this off you?” he asks, tugging at the bottom of his shirt, and Quentin doesn’t bother to reply in any way but to yank it up himself, fabric catching around his head for a moment before Eliot helps him work free, reveling in his unrestricted access to the soft skin of his stomach, the light dusting of hair across his chest, the line of his collarbones. He’s so fucking beautiful.

“‘S not fair if I’m the only one naked,” Q protests, fingers working at the buttons of his vest. Eliot runs the pad of his thumb across one pebbling nipple and he sucks in a shivering breath, hands stuttering. “Fuck––”

“That was the idea, yes.”

“Asshole,” he mutters, and Eliot sucks a kiss against his neck, hands smoothing down his chest and above the waistband of his jeans. “El, c'mon, I want to touch you, please––”

He grinds it out desperate and hungry, and anything he needs, right? Eliot shrugs his shirt off, and then they’re pressed skin to skin, burning hot and heady. He settles his hands on Quentin’s thighs and tugs him in close, rolling his hips up to meet him. Quentin’s breath puffs hot against his shoulder.

“I want,” he says, and rocks forward again, line of his cock pressing against Eliot in the most deliciously teasing way.

“Yeah?” asks Eliot against his lips, breath catching. _ I love you _ burns at the back of his throat, the way it always does, fucking constant, right there with _ yes _ and _ always _ and _ whatever you need. _ “What do you want, sweetheart?”

Q doesn’t say though, only presses an open mouthed kiss against Eliot’s chest and shifts back and back and back until he’s off Eliot’s knees and kneeling between them instead, weight back on his heels and looking up at Eliot, hair mused and lips red and pupils blown black. He looks halfway to wrecked and Eliot wants nothing more than to tip him the rest of the way there. He wets his lips, pink of his tongue darting out, and Eliot can’t look away. His chest heaves.

“Can I––?”

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, nodding, fingers already working at his belt. “Fuck, Q, yeah.”

“Wait,” Quentin says, and Eliot stills immediately, straining and patient. Whatever he needs, whatever––

But Quentin just shakes his head, reaching for the clasp. “No, I mean. Let me. Please.”

And he asks so nice that Eliot has to spread his hands across the plaid pattern of the sofa and let Quentin slide his belt off, hook his fingers in the waistband of his pants and underwear and work his cock free. Fabric pools around his ankles until Eliot kicks it away, knees spread so Quentin can fit neatly between them, mused and pink and shining and the hottest fucking thing Eliot has ever seen.

The air is chill after the warm heat of Quentin across his thighs, but he presses in before Eliot can process the discomfort, lips parted, breath puffing warm against the sensitive head of his cock. Eliot groans.

“Are you going to sit there or––”

Q’s mouth tilts up in a too-sly smile, and he leans forward, licking a long stripe up the underside, watching Eliot from under his brow the whole time. Eliot’s fingers flex against the couch, breath tangled up in his chest. Fucking tease. He’s so proud.

He spreads his legs a little wider in invitation, and doesn’t miss the way Q’s throat bobs as he swallows.

“Well?” he says, imperious and about to shiver out from his skin. “Go on.”

Quentin holds on to his composure for a heartbeat longer, and then Eliot reaches out to brush his cheek with the back of his knuckles and he’s pushing forward again, eager, lips closing around the head of his cock. Eliot’s fingers thread through his hair, gentle, almost shaking with the effort of holding still, of letting him settle, taking him inch by careful inch, and then Q starts to move. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tipping back. Q’s tongue presses just beneath the head of his cock and Eliot’s hips jerk of their own volition, and Q makes a noise deep in his chest, desperate, so Eliot does it again, just a little, just to hear him. Q’s moan pools molten in his gut.

“Yeah?” he breathes, even though he knows, he knows Q’ll take whatever he gives him, and Quentin can’t nod with his lips stretched around Eliot’s cock but he tries anyway, bless him, so Eliot curls the hand in his hair and fucks into his mouth a little and Quentin _ melts _ and it’s. Fucking. He’s so good at this. He’s so fucking good. He’s good and he loves it and Eliot loves how much he loves it; how did he get so _ lucky_.

Eliot loses himself in the feeling, the slide of Quentin’s lips and the heat of his mouth and the little noises he makes. Eliot’s talking, he knows, talking about his shining eyes and deft hands, magician’s hands, beautiful fucking hands, beautiful hands and beautiful mouth and beautiful boy, and he’s so good at this, he’s so fucking good, and Quentin drinks in the praise, swallows him down and strains for more.

His orgasm builds slow and sure, heat tight in his gut, control spiraling away from him. His fingers tighten against Quentin's scalp and the vibration of Q's answering groan punches through him. It's too much, suddenly, he's so close, teetering on the edge.

“Q,” he grits out, “Q, I’m gonna––”

Quentin’s nostrils flare and he wraps his lips around the head of his cock, tongue working, and Eliot comes with a strangled cry, head tipped back, one hand tight in Quentin’s hair as Q works him through it.

He falls back against the couch, boneless.

“Fuck,” he pants. Quentin sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of one hand while Eliot remembers how to breathe again. “We’re never leaving. We should have done this ages ago. This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“I know,” Quentin says, smugness ruined by the thready note in his voice and the erection tenting his pants and the way his fingers flex against his knees, like he wants something and doesn’t know how to ask for it.

Silly boy. He can just ask.

“Come here,” Eliot says, and Quentin scrambles to his feet and back into Eliot’s lap, the perfect fit. Eliot kisses him bitter and sharp as he works his fly open, palms him through the fabric of his underwear, swallows down the breathy, keening noises he makes. “I’ve got you,” he promises into his mouth, Quentin panting against him, “Here, c’mon, I’ve got you.”

It’s an awkward moment getting his pants off, mostly because neither of them wants to pull apart long enough to work them down his thighs, but then he’s free and Eliot can press him down into the couch, lay him out with his cock hard and leaking. Eliot settles over his thighs, drinking in the sight.

“Do you have any idea,” he asks, trailing his fingers across the shivery skin of his stomach, his hips, watching him strain as he tries to push up against nothing, “how beautiful you are?”

“El,” he begs, hands fluttering, and Eliot relents, wraps his fingers around his cock, returns it with, “I know, I’ve got you, I know.”

He crowds in over Quentin, braced up on one arm to work lazily over his cock. Quentin bucks up into it, caught between the couch beneath and Eliot’s careful weight above. Eliot stares down at him, enraptured, watching each and every little twitch of his face, his pink gasping mouth, the line of his brow as Eliot winds him tighter and tighter at the same steady, unyielding pace.

“El,” he gasps between bitten-off moans, stuttering and babbling and beautiful, he’s so fucking beautiful, “El, please, fuck, Eliot––”

And Eliot, because he loves him, because he wants to give him everything he wants, everything he needs, because he could spend the rest of his life taking care of Q and die happy, shifts his weight so Quentin can fuck up into his fist, desperate, and Quentin blinks a sharp “Oh––!” and comes across his stomach and chest.

He sprawls on the couch afterwards, blinking dazedly at the ceiling as Eliot cleans them both up, presses light kisses to his jaw, his brow, his cheeks. 

“You’re right,” Q says when Eliot tugs the blanket off the back of the couch and over them. “Great idea. More vacations. Definitely.”

“Mmm. Have you been to Italy? I’m taking you to Italy.”

“Sure, yeah,” Quentin agrees, settling into his side, eyes sliding closed, lines of his face going soft. “Anywhere.”

They lie together, Quentin tucked up against him skin to skin beneath the blanket, half watching the horror movie playing on television and mostly stealing slow, easy kisses. Quentin’s fingers idly map Eliot’s ribs while Eliot runs a hand through the feather-light strands of his hair and it's easy and good and nice and a dozen other things he never imagined he'd be allowed. When the movie ends, Eliot rouses Q long enough to walk him to the bedroom, and then they’re curled together again, Q huffing quietly into his chest, asleep almost immediately. 

Eliot stays awake a little longer, eyes adjusting to the dark, reveling in the steady rise and fall of Quentin’s chest under his hand, the comfort of the contact, the ceaseless reminder that he gets this, that this is his, that Quentin loves him too. Happiness digs deep into his chest, so sharp it’s almost painful. Fuck fifty years, he wants a hundred, a hundred fifty; he never wants to let this go.

When sleep takes him, it’s with Quentin held close in the circle of his arms, and he dreams of home.

* * *

He wakes to a cold, empty bed and spends a good few minutes sullenly wondering what Quentin could possibly be doing in this tiny cabin more important than cozying up with him before the smell of fresh coffee and something cooking wafts into the room. Which. Not _ entirely _ ideal, but acceptable. He drags himself out of bed and into his robe and out to the main room of the cabin.

Q’s standing at the stove in his pajamas, hair scraped into a bun, humming to himself as he flips something in a skillet. Eliot leans against the couch and watches him, the line of his shoulders and the curve of his waist and the stretch of his sweatpants as he moves. The heater creaks and groans against the wall, and the coffee pot burbles, and the table is set already, two places at the far end.

How he got so fucking lucky he’ll never know.

“What are you making?” he asks, moving forward so he can lean in behind Quentin, looping his arms around his waist. Q turns away from the stove long enough to tilt his face up for a lazy morning kiss.

“French toast.” He gestures with the spatula at the slab of egg-soaked bread sizzling in the pan. Eliot glances at it and turns his face back into Quentin, nosing at the warm, soft spot just behind his ear.

“Smells good,” he says, enjoying the rasp of this morning’s stubble against his jaw as Quentin yawns.

“Tastes good too. I hope.”

“I have faith.”

“Thanks.”

Eliot hums and presses one long, lingering kiss to his temple before pouring them both coffee and leaving Quentin to the harrowing task of providing breakfast.

That it also means he can lean one hip against the counter and watch Q’s forearms and wrists flex as he works is just a bonus.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” he returns. “I thought that was the point of this.”

“Well, if I’d known you were going to objectify me the whole time...”

“There now, Q, I would never. You’re a strong, independent man and I respect that. I’m just… respecting certain parts a little more.”

“Uh huh.”

Eliot smiles around the rim of his mug.

“So what do you have planned for today, oh my complicated, deep, multi-talented, very-handsome-but-not-in-an-objectifying-way love?”

“Who says there’s a plan?” Quentin returns. Eliot, who knows Q and his enthusiasm and constant itch to share the things he loves because he loves them so wholly he can’t really help but broadcast it to the world, raises his eyebrows. It's a testament to how at ease Quentin is that he doesn’t bother looking sheepish.

“There’s a trail down to the pond. I thought we might do a picnic or something. Might be a little cold, but.” He shrugs with one shoulder. 

“Just like old times?”

“Yeah.”

Which. He doesn’t think his heart is meant to go so gentle at that, fond and soft, but it does. Their life tending the mosaic is like a dream, written into their bones more than anything, and Quentin’s quiet, steady determination to build on those old memories–– It makes his throat burn, just a little. It doesn’t help that Q’s watching him with that steady, kind gaze, the one that makes him want to turn his skin inside out and bury his face in the crook of Q’s neck at the same time.

“That sounds nice,” he says, a little choked. And then, more easily, “You’re burning the toast.”

“Shit,” Quentin mutters, moment unraveling. It’s okay, though. They have time.

After breakfast they dress and pack a lunch and Quentin locks the door with a twist of magic and a muttered, “Remind me to fix that later.”

Then he takes Eliot’s hand and leads him across the chill, sun-dappled clearing and into the trees.

The woods teem at this time of year. Squirrels chitter and chase each other up and down broad trunks, and brown, round-bodied birds sing from the frail, bending branches of the uppermost reaches of the canopy. A brisk wind stirs the leaves, sends them drifting down in lazy spirals to carpet the dirt trail below, crunching underfoot, satisfyingly sharp. Quentin’s hand is warm in Eliot’s, skin a little dry, fingers perfectly fit together. It's appallingly idyllic, a sort of magic entirely in and of itself. Quentin points out sights as they go––the tree he got stuck in as a kid, the strawberry patch, the clearing where he and Julia played at Fillory for hours and hours in the full, humid bloom of summer.

(He also––

“I remember it being shorter,” Quentin says apologetically when Eliot stops to stretch his calf against a tree; his aches and pains are mostly faded these days, but he wouldn’t mind a walking stick right about now.

“Well, you had more energy then,” Eliot shrugs. “Remember when Teddy––”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“And you wouldn’t let him out of your sight for a week.”

“We looked away for _ two seconds_––”)

By the time they reach the water the sun is high overhead, yellow light soothing some of the autumn chill. The pond reflects the clear sky, an oblong slash of shocking blue in the midst of the rust-copper-iron gleam of the woods. A pier juts out into the water, and the grass along the bank is faded and dry after the long heat of summer and the sudden shock of the cold. Quentin spreads out a blanket and plops firmly down onto it.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “I feel old.”

“But you wear it so well,” Eliot says, easing down next to him, stretching his legs out. One knee pops sharply. Quentin winces. “Not a day over a hundred.”

“I moisturize,” Q returns. “Hungry?”

“Not right now. Where’s the water?”

“There.” He points at the pond, unbearably pleased with himself. Nerd. Eliot loves him.

He loves him even more when he fishes a water bottle out of the bag and hands it over. Eliot chugs half of it and feels moderately more human.

“Please tell me the walk back isn’t as bad.”

“It’s mostly downhill,” Q says. “I think. Let’s just, uh, not worry about it right now.”

So they don’t. Instead they sit on the blanket, jackets loose, heads tilted back to bask in the thinspun sunlight. Quentin huffs and sighs with the breeze, his hand fitted warm and familiar in Eliot’s. If he closes his eyes he could almost imagine the river, and Teddy nearby. Most days he makes an effort to avoid indulging in bygone memories, but it doesn’t hurt so much here, with Quentin at his side, with the water lapping at the banks, with the rest of the world miles and miles away.

“Hey,” says Q softly, and when he blinks his eyes open he's met with Quentin’s gentle smile.

“Hey.” He tilts his chin up, and Quentin tips forward to kiss him sweetly.

“I have something for you.”

“For me? You shouldn’t have.” Eliot sits up a little straighter. “What is it?”

In answer, Quentin hands him a box roughly as wide as his palm, wrapped in blue paper. Eliot takes it with a curious frown.

“I hope you don’t mind if it’s a few days early.”

“You got me something?” He’d assumed the trip was the gift, their unbroken span of privacy and time. Quentin fidgets, picking at the fabric of the blanket.

“Just–– open it?”

Eliot hefts it a moment––it’s surprisingly heavy for such a little thing––and pries the tape up along one side with a nail, sliding the wrapping paper off. He’s left with a box of smooth black leather, unadorned. Carefully, he lifts the lid.

A silver pocketwatch rests within, nestled in a bed of dark velvet, engraved with a tree that looks improbably real at first glance, bark and leaves so intricately detailed they could almost be moving. Eliot lifts it out of the box, thumb running along the edges. If he tilts it just so he can pick out faint, indecipherable symbols shifting beneath the surface, lending to the illusion of something living. The metal itself hums faintly, the staticky sensation of magic itching against his fingers. It thrums away in his hand, whispering out a tock-tick rhythm that sits ever so slightly wrong against his ear.

Eliot glances at Q, watching him silently, and opens it.

The heart of the watch ticks behind a glass face, clockwork laid bare, cogs twisting together. Etchings of numerals mark out the hours, and six hands rotate around them, one set in silver and the other in bronze, keeping a two-part heartbeat. It’s a work of art as much as it is a timekeeping piece, and almost, he could swear, alive.

He wets his lips and looks up at Quentin. “Is this… Fillorian?”

“It’s from one of the clock trees.”

“How––”

“I visited Margo,” he admits. “While you were helping Julia with the chimera thing.”

“You said you were on campus.” There’s no heat to it.

Q shrugs. For a moment they’re quiet, water lapping against the shore. A hidden bird trills. Eliot turns the watch over in his hands. The back, engraved in flowing script, reads: _ To Eliot–– peaches & plums, motherfucker_. His throat goes tight.

“I know you’re happy here,” Quentin says quietly as he looks it over, metal warming his fingers. “I’m not asking you to make a choice or anything like that. I just–– I know how much Fillory means to you, El. This is a piece of it you can keep with you, wherever you go.”

“Q,” says Eliot quietly. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“It keeps time here and there too. So if you want to, y’know, visit, or when we go back, you’ll know–– Yeah.”

Eliot wets his lips, watches the hands tick. Looks up at Quentin.

“When we go back?” he echoes. His heart flutters in the cage of his chest. Quentin looks at him and through him, and it’s the sort of expression that would have sent him running a year ago. He’s getting better at that, though. At being brave, at trusting Q. At loving him through the instinct of his fear.

“It’s your home, El,” he says, like it’s that easy.

And the thing is–– it is. Has been. More home than Indiana, anyway, than Brakebills. Than the city, even. It had been somewhere that needed him, and he’d needed it in turn, that miserable, nonsensical world that saved his life, gave him the chance to be the best of himself for lack of any other option. He’d found purpose, direction, something to fight for. Something to live for. He’d been happy in Fillory, fifty years happy; happy in the sort of way he didn’t think he’d ever be, didn’t think he was allowed. But–– Well.

He’s always had an inkling that’s less to do with the Fillory of it all, and he’s a little better about listening to those inklings these days.

“I think,” he says, tight and quiet and certain above all, “I think that might not quite be true.”

Quentin’s brow furrows. “What d’you mean?”

“I think home might be a little more… Hm. Personal?” It feels inadequate, but he doesn’t know how else to put it without stripping everything bare, and he feels delicate enough already. He looks at Quentin, hoping he understands. Willing him to understand.

“Oh,” says Quentin, confusion at the edges of his expression. And then his eyes widen, and–– “Oh, uh.”

“Mmm. Yeah.”

“Eliot.” He sounds like he might cry. Eliot reaches a hand out to tug him close, arms loose around his waist, legs tangled together on the blanket. It’s a blocky pattern, half familiar; Eliot hadn’t even noticed.

“I love you,” he says. “It’s a beautiful gift.”

“I love you too.” He tilts his head up for a kiss, and what else is Eliot supposed to do? “You know I’d go wherever, right?”

It’s too big, his heart is too big; it can’t fit in his chest. “Follow me to the ends of the earth will you, Coldwater?”

“Did that once,” Q says, sour like a note out of tune, but he rinses it away with another steady-soft kiss. “I’m just saying. Whatever you decide to do. I’ll be there.”

Eliot pauses, aware the conversation has somehow dipped into something less simple and a little more serious. “What about–– your life’s here, Q.”

“Well,” says Quentin, sitting up, hands raised as he ticks off his fingers. “My best friend is a world-hopping demigoddess and can visit sort of whenever. Also, she’s dating a traveler. My other best friend is High King of a magical land. My class dean tried to memory wipe me after grooming me to fight a monster from another world so definitely not going back there. And my ex-girlfriend is reforming an interdimensional library that holds all knowledge in the universe so it’s not like I’ve got to stick around to redirect her mail.” He wiggles his fingers. “I’m just saying. I’m not opposed to how things are right now. But if you––if _ we _ want to try something else. We can.”

“Well when you put it like that,” Eliot says, and presses a kiss to his open palm. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I talked it over with Julia,” he offers. “Not that–– I meant what I said. You don’t have to make a choice. But it’s there, if you want it.”

Eliot swallows. “What about you?” he asks quietly. “Can I choose you?”

Quentin’s expression stutters, then breaks like sunlight through clouds.

“Yeah. Of course, El.” He dimples, caught between teasing and raw honesty. “I wish you would.”

And Eliot doesn’t know what to say to that, exactly, because words are irritating, slippery things in the face of this fullness of feeling, so he takes Quentin’s face between his hands and kisses him, and they sit bright in the day, Eliot loving Quentin, Quentin loving Eliot.

It’s a very good present. The best he's had, maybe.

“I’m telling Margo you called her your other best friend,” he says later, much later, after they’ve eaten a little and drank a little. The shadows have begun to wake and stretch around them as the afternoon grows long. They’re lying on the blanket now, Quentin’s face pushed into the hollow at the base of Eliot’s throat, breath tickling his skin. Eliot’s scarf is draped over Q’s shoulders, because Eliot hadn’t needed it in the first place but Quentin gets cold and he thinks about these things now, constantly, gladly. Quentin lifts his head, chin propped up on his chest, just this side of uncomfortable and neither of them willing to move.

“Great. Is that before or after you tell her about my impression of her?”

“Definitely after. Just in case.”

He snorts. “It’s sweet of you to care so much about my wellbeing.”

“It’s purely selfish, I assure you. I’d hate to get in a tiff with Margo because she murdered my boyfriend.”

“And cause she’d kick your ass.”

“Mm, yes.”

Quentin tucks his face down again, words muffled in Eliot’s coat. “What a romantic.”

“It’s a heavy burden, but someone has to bear it.” He curls one hand gently in Quentin’s hair, sinking back against the blanket. “Want to swim?”

Q’s head comes up again, mouth tugged down at the corners.

“It’s like. Freezing.” As if that's going to stop him. Also it's definitely not freezing, Quentin just runs cold.

“What’s the point of magic if not for showy displays of power?” Eliot posits. “Also, skinny dipping.”

“What if someone sees?”

“It’ll be a story to tell the kids.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it, and he catches the moment something bigger than this sheltered moment crosses Quentin’s mind. Before he can get lost in the far-off thought Eliot stands up, dragging Q along. The scarf slips down one shoulder; Eliot fixes it for him.

“I can’t do it all by myself, Coldwater, lend me a hand.”

“You probably could.” Which. Isn’t untrue, but he’s trying to pull Quentin out of his head, so he gives his best, most regal pout until Quentin sighs and relents.

Cooperative magic is, in general, among the nicer parts of casting, all that power zinging around, folding back on itself, lighting up whoever might be participating. Cooperative magic with Quentin, whose power is familiar and gleaming and straining to help, is euphoric. They stand together at the edge of the pier, hands flexing through the tuts, magic washing through them and out over the water, raising the temperature of the pond degree by degree until steam curls up into the air, a magic-made hot springs in late October. 

Eliot strips briskly and takes a running leap off the edge of the pier, sending up a spray of water. He surfaces a moment later, shaking his hair out of his face, and raises his eyebrows at Q.

“Come on in,” he drawls. “The water’s nice.”

“You know, I’m more of a, um––”

“If you make a Coldwater pun I’m dunking you.”

He shrugs, unrepentant and pleased. “It’s right there, though.”

“As the birthday boy—“

“Oh, is it your birthday?“

“—I’d be particularly grateful if you would indulge me in this rare and wonderful opportunity to go skinny dipping in your grandparent’s pond.”

Quentin snorts, but also kneels to start untying his shoes. “Anyone ever tell you you have a real way with words?”

“People compliment my talented mouth all the time, yes.”

His laugh gets caught in his sweater as he pulls it off over his head. He hesitates a moment when he gets down to his underwear, but—

“It’s warmer in than out,” Eliot promises, and his boxers join the pile of his clothes.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and in two short strides he steps off the edge of the pier, disappearing below the surface with a smooth ripple. He surfaces a moment later, spluttering. “It’s hot!”

“Practically Icelandic,” Eliot agrees, striking out towards him, enjoying the bite of the air against his shoulders in contrast to the magical––literally––heat of the water. Quentin bobs slightly as he treads water. “But actually nothing like that. It’s appalling we haven’t visited a hot springs yet. What have we been doing?”

“Recovering from years of trauma I think.”

Eliot makes a face. “I’m adding it to the list.”

“Before or after Italy?” asks Q wryly, and pauses. “Actually. Um. Is this a real list? Do you think we could go to Paris? I’ve always wanted to see it.”

Eliot can imagine it, Quentin wide eyed and wondrous and wandering the narrow cobblestone streets, playing the tourist and he the tour guide respectively and enjoying the very best of the city, all its hidden tricks and treats and trinkets. Cafes and museums and park benches, cozy bars hidden away down crooked streets, old monuments and older churches. Quentin drinking in the world, and Eliot drinking in Quentin.

“Sweetheart,” he says, warm inside and out. “We’re magicians. We can go wherever we want.”

* * *

Quentin had it right: the trail back to the cabin is largely downhill. They trip along it, shivering and laughing, skin flushed from the sharp change in temperature, and tumble into the cabin, changing out of their damp clothes and leaving them out to dry in front of the fire Eliot stokes in the bedroom fireplace. Even in the heat of the cabin and tucked in fresh, dry sweatpants, Quentin complains he’s cold, so Eliot wraps him in a blanket, tightening it around his shoulders and kissing him when he laughs and feebly protests he can’t do anything.

“That’s what I’m for,” Eliot assures him, knuckles dug into the fabric, grinning down at the disheveled, pouting burrito of a man in front of him.

“But it’s your birthday. As you keep reminding me.”

“Ah, but Quentin. You’re my present this year.”

Quentin, arms pinned, fixes him with the most pained expression. “Did you just quote the Folgers commercial to me? Did you really just–– El, no.”

El yes, actually. He kisses him again because he can and pulls away feeling generally like someone’s elected to set of fireworks where his insides should be. The sparks tingle all the way down to his fingers. He hadn’t thought it possible to be this happy, hadn’t thought it _ allowed_. He’s not sure what to do with himself in the face of it all. He settles for kissing Quentin’s nose and letting him go, because he can be magnanimous. It’s a good trait in a king, even a de-crowned one. 

Quentin works his hands free of the blanket and adjusts it across his shoulders, and Eliot turns away to collect himself, crouching down to poke at the fire.

“Are you saying it wouldn’t be an enjoyable experience? Unwrapping you?” He’s pretty sure it would be enjoyable. He’s pretty sure it would be fucking delectable, actually, peeling him out of all his layers, wriggly and fluttering and hands everywhere. Eliot sets the poker down. The fire in the hearth suddenly doesn’t seem nearly as pressing as the fire crackling under his skin.

The bedsprings creak behind him as Quentin sits. “Well when you put it like that.”

Eliot laughs and straightens up, and his breath catches in his throat.

Late afternoon sunlight spills through the windows, painting the room gold. Quentin sits with the blanket loose around his shoulders, soft in an old t-shirt and sweatpants and glowing in the light, like even the world loves him, wants to keep him safe and warm. Eliot’s gut clenches with something that is part arousal and part gentler, breathless.

Quentin is staring back at him, mouth open as if whatever he was going to say has stalled on his lips. He meets Eliot’s eyes, tongue darting out, and then his face softens to fondness and he asks, sweet as honey, “Kiss me?”

So Eliot kneels at the edge of the bed and tilts his chin up to kiss Quentin gentle and warm in the glow of the sun. The fire crackles behind him, and there’s birdsong, and wind chimes, and it bleeds through the quiet of the afternoon, cocoons them in music and light.

“Scoot back a little,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin does, making space for Eliot to join him up on the bed. It's better like this; he can cradle his face in his hands and kiss him deeper, fuller, hungrier. Quentin hums happily.

“Touch me?” he asks, and Eliot does, drags his fingers against his skin as he works his shirt off and tugs his pants down, sheds his own sweats to cover Quentin head to toe, skin to skin, kiss him lazy and burning, the slide of lips and press of tongues and an unhurried heat pooling in his gut. Quentin arches under him, his hands drifting against his shoulders, arms, back, face; each brush of fingers rushes through him like fire through dry grass.

“Look at you,” Eliot murmurs, moving lower, pressing kisses down his chest, his stomach, his hips. He takes Quentin’s half-hard cock in his mouth, lapping at the slit, enjoying the stretch as he grows hard. One arm across his hips keeps him stead as Eliot works him up and lets him go again.

“Is this part of the present too?” Quentin asks, low and strained, hands resting in Eliot’s hair, pushed up on one elbow to watch him. Eliot presses an open mouthed kiss to the inside of his leg, his knee.

“Yes,” Eliot says. “I hope that’s alright.”

“I think,” Quentin says, and has to start over when Eliot bites against his thigh, voice going thready, “I think I’ll manage.”

“Thank you.” He’s joking, sort of, and also not, and something of that must read because Quentin pushes at his shoulder, coaxes him back up his body to kiss him sure and sweet with his hands bracketing Eliot’s face.

“I love you,” he whispers. And then, like a blow, “I trust you.”

And Eliot has to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until he can steady his heart.

He takes his time like he promised himself he would, unspools Quentin in the kind golden light of the afternoon. Pays delicate attention to the tender parts of him; laves his tongue over one sensitive nipple then the other, presses hot kisses to the undersides of his jaw, noses at the ripples of his ribs. Maps him out with tongue and teeth with Quentin writhing under him, hands reaching, chest to stomach to––

“Patience,” Eliot chides, catching his hands. He laces their fingers together and pins them above Quentin’s head, movement sliding their cocks together. Quentin arcs up into it, chin tipped up, throat long and bare and lovely. Eliot sucks a kiss against it.

“I think I’m being _ very _ patient,” he returns, breathless. “You should–– _ oh_.”

Eliot grins wide and rocks forward again, more intently. “What should I do?”

“You should––_fuck–– _ probably fuck me.”

“Hmm.” He makes a show of considering the possibility, though it’s difficult to fake contemplation with sharp-sparking pleasure unfurling in his gut. He sort of wants to stretch this out forever. He sort of wants to swallow him whole.

Quentin strains up while he’s playing at uncertainty, kisses him hot and eager and messy, and Eliot loses hold of his careful control, hand sliding down Quentin’s arms to settle at the juncture of his neck, licking into his mouth, pressing him down into the mattress. He loves this, Quentin open and wanting and at ease inside his own skin. Loves it when he asks, and when he trusts Eliot to know what he wants, what he’ll like. Loves him impatient and hungry and sparkling with that mischief that simmers beneath the surface.

“I think,” Eliot manages, breath mingling between them, “you’re probably right.”

He rolls off Quentin and makes the almost unbearable trip to their bags for condom and lube, and Quentin shifts up against the headboard, staring shamelessly at his ass.

“See something you like?”

“I would never objectify you like that,” he returns, all mischief, giggling until Eliot settles himself across his hips and kisses him like he wants to eat him alive.

Which. Well.

“Turn over for me,” he asks, sliding off, and Quentin scrambles over onto his stomach, letting Eliot array him on the bedspread and settle behind him. He strokes along the line of his thighs, down to the muscle of his calf and back up again, finally resting his hands on the curve of his ass. With a twist of his fingers magic settles against his skin, cleaning, and Q shudders. 

“Okay?”

Up near the head of the bed, Quentin’s head shifts. “Jesus. Yeah.”

Every line of him has gone tight with anticipation as he tries desperately to keep still. Eliot smiles, palms smoothing over skin, and then he leans forward to press a warm, wet kiss to the small of his back, the base of his spine, the swell of his ass. Quentin huffs above him, which turns to a sharp cry when Eliot swipes his tongue across him. Eliot laughs against his skin. Always so eager, Q. Such a fucking gift.

“You're so good to me,” he says, and licks against him again, alternating with light kisses, tongue darting out. Quentin keens and pants above him, a churning stream of pleasure and need. It crashes over Eliot, blots out everything else. His mouth works over Quentin’s hole until he’s spit-slick and trembling and begging for _ more, please, Eliot, I want––_

And who is Eliot to deny him anything?

He sits back again, reaching across the bedspread for the lube and dribbling it liberally over his fingers before he turns his attention back to Quentin. One finger circles his hole with the slightest pressure. He holds his hips steady when he tries to rock back against it, whining.

“El––”

“Good?” Of course it’s good, he knows it’s good, but it lights him up inside when Quentin nods helpless, face pressed into the bedspread, back a long line, hips straining. He looks shattered, desperate; he looks like the most incredible fucking thing.

“Yes, fuck, Eliot, _ please._”

“So impatient,” he grins, and moves.

He presses his finger in to the first knuckle and Quentin lets out a sharp cry, all encouragement. Eliot moves slowly, one finger pumping in and out, and then two, stretching him, dropping kisses where his fingers disappear into his ass, working him open with single-minded focus. Quentin squirms beneath him, biting out broken pleas and praise in equal measure.

“El,” he begs, “I want––”

“Yeah?” Eliot coaxes, smoothing one hand up his side, the other pushing deeper into him, fingers curling. Quentin pants.

“Want you––”

Eliot hums, and Quentin shudders with it. “Where?”

“Inside me,” he bites out, pushing back against his fingers, back bowing as Eliot brushes against his prostate again. “Please, _ Eliot._”

He presses one last kiss against where his fingers disappear into his warm heat, then pulls away entirely. Quentin whines at the loss.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, it’s alright.” Gently he turns Quentin over, leans up to kiss him briefly, borrow a pillow to settle under his hips. He's beautifully wrecked, mouth open and panting, cock heavy and red, precum smeared across his stomach. He stares up at Eliot with naked want. It’s heady; he feels drunk with it.

He wastes no time rolling on the condom and slicking himself up, achingly hard. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, and lines himself up. “I’ve got you,” he says, and slowly, slowly pushes in.

Quentin gasps as he presses forward, mouth running, but Eliot can’t focus on a word he’s saying; he has a mind only for the tight heat, the slow push, the blinding pleasure hooked behind his balls; when he bottoms out he has to hold a moment, go still and steady while Quentin pants “El, El, El,” against his mouth, clenching down around him.

It’s less kiss and more the messy slide of lips, both of them caught up trying to breathe, to fit inside their skin. And then Quentin’s heel comes up and presses against his ass, urges him to move, so he pulls back and pushes forward again, a glide of pleasure that fuzzes the world around him; there is only him, and Quentin, and the gleaming light drenching them in gold.

He isn’t going to last long with Quentin burning under him, pupils blown wide, moaning against Eliot’s mouth as he fucks forward, pleasure tight in his gut. He works a hand between them, wraps his fingers around Quentin until he’s rocking back onto Eliot’s cock and up into his hand, mouth open and soft, sunlight painting bars of gold across his bare skin, and he’s beautiful and warm and good, so good, every facet and fractal of him. Eliot is going to splinter apart, cracking at every point Quentin touches him; he doesn’t know how to hold all this joy inside him.

“Q,” he says, nose pressing just under his jaw; everything smells of him, feels of him, tastes of him. His hips snap forward. “Q––”

“Eliot,” he returns, long and drawn, and his hips stutter. He comes with a cry, faced folded up in pleasure and shock, like he can’t believe how good it is, like he can’t believe it can be this good. He clenches around Eliot, tight, and Eliot thrusts forward and tumbles after him, lit up from the inside as he comes, all sunlight. 

He falls forward, catching himself on his elbow, and braces his forehead against Quentin’s heaving chest. Quentin’s hands settle in his hair, warm, familiar pressure. Eliot sucks in air and raises his head, kisses Quentin molasses sweet and heavy. The drag of skin on skin as he pulls out is almost too much.

“Fuck,” says Quentin, and then laughs bubbling and bright.

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees.

He sits up long enough to deal with the condom, tying it off and lobbing it in the direction of what he’s pretty sure is the trash can and if not, well, that's a problem for future Eliot, and cleans them up with a twist of magic, because being a fucking magician is good, sometimes. Then he can gather Quentin up in his arms, hold him loose and languid and shivery as they settle back in their skin. It takes a while, but that’s okay. Eliot likes taking his time with it, with Q. Doesn’t mind the slow settling as he remembers how to breathe again, remembers how to _ be _ again, when he feels struck to pieces and delicate as fresh-fallen leaves.

And. Anyway. What could be more important than this, holding Q well-fucked and smiling and soft, ducking his face against the sun-warmed skin of his shoulder.

“I love you,” he promises against Quentin’s forehead. Q burrows against him, like he can’t get enough of his little body pressed against Eliot.

“Love you too,” Quentin mumbles into his skin. He shifts again, fingers curling against Eliot’s side. There’s a little furrow digging its way between his brow, which shouldn’t be there, not when Eliot is here to hold the world at bay. He runs a thumb across it, smooths it out. Runs his fingers along the ridge of his spine, sweeping up and down.

"I can hear you thinking," he murmurs, and Quentin goes still. Eliot keeps his fingers drifting against his skin, waiting for him to voice whatever’s circling his mind.

“What you said earlier," Q says finally. "About. Home?”

His heart skips a sideways beat in his chest. “Yeah?”

Quentin’s breath huffs against his skin. “My home’s a little more, uh, personal too. Just so you know.”

“Oh,” says Eliot, stomaching doing something swooping and weightless. His hand stills. “Right.”

Quentin sighs, unmistakable, and Eliot’s suddenly pinned by a warm, slightly exasperated gaze. “El.”

It’s not about deserving it, he reminds himself with effort. It isn't about what he is or isn't allowed. It’s about loving Quentin. The rest is noise.

“I know,” he mumbles, tugging him closer so he can tuck his face in his neck, which is easier than bearing the blistering faith behind his eyes. He’s trying. He is. It’s just. Hard, sometimes.

They're smart people, though. They can do hard things. 

“I love you,” Quentin reminds him, all that warmth humming beneath. His hand settles warm against the curve of his skull.

Outside the sun sets in a riot of orange and amber, and the wind chimes sing, and the birdsong grows distant. Eliot blows out a long, slow breath and looks at Quentin, who is looking back at him, face scrunched up and soft. 

"Okay," Eliot says. "Let's visit Fillory."

For a moment Quentin blinks at him, and then his expression smoothes.

"Okay," he agrees. And then, because he can't help himself, "So, like, _now_, or––?"

Eliot digs his fingers into his sides, grins when he yelps and wriggles away. So, yes, they missed the last one. And yes, they're trying, and yes it's hard sometimes. But it's good sometimes too; night fall softly over a little cabin in a big woods and the fire crackles warm and quiet and Quentin's laugh lingers in the air and he looks at Eliot like that, light burning through the cracks of him. In a little while they'll get up, cook dinner pressed hip to hip and make a list of things to try, worlds to visit and wonders to see. But they can lie in bed a little longer. They have time. They'll be alright.

So. Yeah. Pretty good birthday.


End file.
